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Vata Pitta

Kapha

Toro, Toro

This weekend has been pretty mellow. No panic attacks, no heart attacks, at least no major ones.

Kristen linked to a good site, paniccure.com, that gave the analogy of a panic attack as a dog who will only chase you if you run. It also explains that the sensations of the panic attack are completely normal and harmless, but what is abnormal is the anxious person's reaction to it.

Apparently, people who experience these attacks are extremely courageous, creative and on the verge of genius-hood. Well, maybe not the last one, but they do say that panic can be exhilarating if you embrace it properly.

So, here I am, like the matador waiving the red flag. Panic, come and get me!

In a Perfect World

My Brain: Starring in "The Computer Dilemma"

Everyday at 5:00 p.m., I gleefully exit the office and thank God that I’m one day closer to the weekend. And everyday, just like clockwork, when I hit that elevator button to take me out of my misery, my brain goes into a psychobabble of, “holy-shit-did-I-forget-to-log-off-my-computer,” which resembles something close to the following:

Huh, did I log off my computer?
I think I forgot to log off my computer.
No. I wouldn’t forget that.
But, if I did, the janitors will see it.
If the janitors see it, they’ll use it to go on the net.
If they go on the net, they’ll look at porn.
If they look at porn, IT will find out.
If IT finds out, they’ll think I’m a perv.
If they think I’m a perv, they’ll tell my supervisor.
If they tell my supervisor, I’ll get fired.
If I get fired for being a perv, no one will hire me.
If no one hires me, I won’t be able to pay my bills.
If I can’t pay my bills, I’ll have to live on the streets.
If I live on the streets, I’ll become a drug addict.
If I become a drug addict, I’ll die a lonely death and no one will care!!!

(It’s about here, that the elevator doors open. And, I shamefully mumble a lame, “I forgot something,” and turn to reenter the office. I get to my cube, which is adorned in, “PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THIS DESK” signs, and as usual, find my computer safely logged off. Once again, I attempt to exit the office, but as I leave…)

Hmm, was my computer really logged off.
I saw it. It was definitely logged off.
But, I was in such a hurry, what if I just thought it was logged off.
If it wasn’t logged off…

Well, you get the picture.

Hit the Nail on the Head

I crossed a site this morning that defined anxiety in a way that I could really relate to, and unlike any site I’ve seen before. Most definitions of anxiety go something like, “a state of uneasiness and apprehension,” then go on to give a list of synonyms like worry, distress, nervousness and botheration. (I have no idea what that last one means). Such an empty explanation for something so complicated. It’s like defining war as, “two countries fighting.”

This site is different; it defines anxiety by breaking it down into three categories: mental, physical and dissociative. It explains that individuals experience some or all of these symptoms at varying degrees. I can relate to all of them; mental being the preoccupation with things going wrong; physical being the tight chest, sweaty palms and shortness of breath; but what really hit home for me, was the dissociative element.

It’s defined on the site as this:

Where certain feelings or thoughts appear separated from you or your personality. Symptoms include - depersonalisation, (the feeling that your body is strange or you are somehow removed from it), derealisation, (the feeling that the world is weird or unreal), narrowing of the time-frame, (so that only now matters), mental confusion, (adding to disorganised and ineffective behaviour), your mind 'playing tricks on you', repeated waves of emotion, occasional sense of dread, emotional numbing, episodes of amnesia. 'Mini-mood swings' are common, i.e. where normal day-to-day changes in mood are exaggerated by your anxious state. Understandably, such symptoms are disconcerting and can make you feel that you are losing grip with reality.

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

It goes on to explain that anxiety manifests itself in several different ways, (unfortunately, many of which I know first hand): GAD, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Compulsions, P.T.S.D., Hypochondria, Psychosomatic Illness, and defines each one in simple and relatable terms.

It’s comforting to see my feelings put into words by someone else. It’s the ultimate reassurance that others actually do experience the same craziness that I do.

I'm Freaking Out

I’m at work and I keep getting sharp shooting pains in different parts of my head. I’m trying to ignore them and stay calm, but I think I’m having a stroke. I can’t go to the bathroom or take a walk because I’m afraid I’ll pass out and die. Rey is in class, so I can’t call him. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m starting to hyperventilate. Help!

This is a First

Now I know why I’ve been under the weather and more anxious than usual. I’m suffering from the Let-Down Effect. Here’s the gist:

It's most commonly noticed after the completion of a stressful project of any sort — training for an athletic event, working to get that proposal in at work, getting through the crush of the holiday season — and just in time for a weekend, a holiday, a vacation, or even retirement, you get sick.

This has got to be the first time I’ve self-diagnosed myself with a disorder that doesn’t lead to death. Although I'm not sure what this means:

The body feels it has some sort of infection going on, and rather than sending in a couple of marines, it sends in the whole brigade," says Schoen. "The effect is, the body has far more inflammation than it needs. There are too many marines in one spot. And with too much inflammation in one spot, it begins to whittle down the body's systems and organs.

Whittle down organs? Maybe that liver pain isn't cirrhosis, but my immune system slowly eating away at my liver. I'm off to look for some stress releiving techniques.

Easier Said than Done

I'm always a sucker for a good motivational quote, so here it is:

A bar of iron costs $5, made into horseshoes its worth is $12, made into needles its worth is $3,500, made into balance springs for watches, its worth is $300,000. Your own value is determined also by what you are able to make of yourself.
- Anonymous

I'm a Brit

At heart, at least. I never realized the Brits were so stressed. I like to imagine them living in this trendy, worry-free existence where they drink beer at lunch and take afternoon siestas. But after surfing the net, it seems I’m completely disconnected once again.

This is just one of the many blurbs I stumbled upon about the the high level of anxiety in the UK:

If, however, you are today so highly strung that you are losing your grip, then you can feel happily at one with the times. And if you were stranded at Heathrow in the fog and have only just emerged from a full-blown anxiety attack, you can consider yourself a true Brit.

I like their way of thinking—“happily at one with the times,” “a true Brit.” That’s what I call positive thinking. Lax drug laws, free health care, good beer—London here I come.

And She's Off

I had a massive panic attack last night. It wasn’t quite as bad as the attack last March, when I did my best Exorcist impression, but it was definitely a runner-up. For three straight hours, I was wholly convinced that I was forgetting to breathe. You read that right, forgetting to breathe.

There we were, relaxing in our China robes, watching Star Wars Episode II and everything was seemingly fine; maybe even great, until the clock struck 9:11 p.m., and I commenced to freak-the-f#%k-out.

It was as if the living room suddenly turned into the Gravitron. I was dizzy and my vision was blurred. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a thousand pounds. I couldn’t breathe. I felt disoriented, disconnected, like I was about to swallow my tongue.

But it didn’t come and go, like they usually do. I walked around the house, checked my temperature, inspected myself in the mirror, tried to breathe deep; and after twenty minutes of no relief, I found myself on the couch in a full-blown emotional break-down.

The next couple hours are a blur. I couldn’t calm down, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t do anything but cry and hyperventilate. It’s hard to describe the mind-set and emotions that go along with a panic attack. Put plainly, it’s terrifying.

All logic goes out the window and emotion takes it's place. It's like you believe deep down that something is seriously wrong, when it's clearly not.

1-866-WORRY4U

Need a shoulder to cry worry on? You're in luck! For the very low price of $1.99 per minute (first five minutes free, of course) you can talk to a professional worrier, who will put your mind at ease. Allegedly.

According to The Worry Club CEO—and no I didn’t make that up—here are a few reasons you should call:

• You worry about things that you recognize most people do not worry about (such as little things around your home).

• You find it very difficult to stop worrying, and cannot relax as a result.

• Your worry rarely results in your reaching a possible solution for a particular problem.

• You worry about not being worried, or worry when everything is going well in your life.

• You worry about relationships, family or friends.

• You worry and have stress related to work.

At first I was skeptical, but then I read this:

The point is, we actually save you money. No driving to find a local free therapist or community service organization, no traffic, no paper work, insurance forms, private and confidential, helpful and available 27/7. (that is not a typo).

Lets face it, your stress and worries is making your life hard, and it affects your life and those around you. For just a few dollars, you can speak to a professional that can help make your life more manageable, help you feel better and offer you a neutral ear to help you regain your life.

I guess it can't be a rip off if they're saving me money! For the record, the term professional is being used fast and loose here. Bonnie, the CEO, has a B.S. in psychology, but the other professional worriers have degrees in mathematics, sports medicine, biology, business administration and marketing.

Oh wait, I've got an idea, email me your worries and diseases, plus the low amount of $50, and I'll take them on as my very own for the entire year! On the other hand, if you prefer the professionals, they can be reached here or at 1-866-WORRY4U.

A Keen Eye for the Obvious

Is your hypo-cred in doubt? This in-depth test will clear things right up. Here’s a peek at mine:

1. Do you worry about your health more than most people do? Yes/No

Not at all. Unless by “worry” you mean checking for my pulse 48 times a day and freaking out when my temperature is two-tenths of a degree higher/lower than normal.

2. If you've been ill and someone tells you you're looking better, do you feel annoyed? Yes/No

Like when I’m in the midst of a heart attack or suffering from bird flu and my boyfriend says I’m fine and calls me a sissy? Slightly.

3. Are you bothered by many aches and pains? Yes/No

Just the everyday lung pains and stabbing sensations in the head and chest…but, it’s more the numbness and dizziness that scare me.

4. Do you think there is something seriously wrong with your body? Yes/No

Only if you think MS, Breast Cancer and Brain Tumors fall under the category of serious.

5. Do you spend most of your time thinking about yourself and your health, rather than other people or things?

I’m the sick one, shouldn’t they be thinking about me?

6. Do you feel that other people are not paying enough attention to your illnesses?

I’m still in the closet.

7. Do you think the doctor is lying when he/she tells you there is nothing wrong with you? Yes/No

Hmmm, I wouldn’t say lying. More like guessing.

8. If you hear about a disease, are you afraid of getting it? Yes/No

Not until I get the symptoms.

9. Do you worry often that you may have a serious illness? Yes/No

I would describe it more as obsessing.

10. Do you have many different types of symptoms? Yes/No

As many as my diseases call for.

Thanks guys, but it’s not the diagnosis I’m having trouble with; it’s the solution.

News You Don't Need

Here I am minding my own business, getting ready for the playoffs, making a stew, and fighting Diabetes, Parkinsons and Cirrhosis, when I innocently check my email. And what do I find? Oh, nothing. Nothing, but a newsletter from WebMD with the headline Sudden Death Gene Strikes Women Most. Wait, it gets better, this is the lead paragraph:

"Women are more likely than men to carry -- and to pass on -- mutant genes that cause long-QT syndrome, a defect in the heart's electrical system linked to sudden death, according to new research."

Mutant gene? Sudden death? And I'm the crazy one for thinking that I could suddenly drop dead at any time. Oh, how I want my innocence back. I struggled before posting this because I didn't want to freak anybody out, but then I realized I can't bear this burden alone. Is this WebMD's idea of a sick joke?

So really, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

It Was Fun While it Lasted

Well, according to this article, caffeine is the main culprit for panic attacks. Although, I don't know how much credence I give to someone who had one panic attack five years ago. And, I don't think this "recipe for beating panic attacks" is for people like me, who experience them on a daily basis. Besides, I gave up coffee for six months without any noticable benefits.

Give me a few more attacks in exchange for a lower risk of Cirrhosis, Diabetes and Parkinsons, any day.

They’re Baaaccckkkk

Not that they were ever really gone, I suppose, but now that the holidays are over and the social anxiety has subsided a bit, the panic attacks and hypochondria are in full swing.

I’m in a constant state of, “OH MY GOD, I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK.” Every time I turn around it’s a racing heart, tight chest, loss of breath, blurred vision, numbness in the limbs, confusion, shooting pains in various parts of the body.

I feel like I’m living in a permanent state of hypersensitivity—or as Rey would say, “sissy-ness.” Every little pang and twinge stops the world and takes me seconds from death. If my eye twitches, it’s a heart attack. If I have trouble swallowing, heart attack. My foot falls asleep, heart attack. I feel myself breathe, heart attack.

It’s insane. I must have had fifteen heart attacks last night. And what kills me is that I really believe, I mean believe, that I’m having a heart attack each time. I just want to punch myself in the face for being so dense.

My Hero

It was a tad premature to announce my divorce from alcohol. According to WebMD drinking at least two cups of coffee a day reduces the risk of Cirrhosis by 80%. But wait, that's not all. Coffee also significantly reduces the risk of Diabetes, Parkinsons, helps manage asthma and even prevents cavaties.

Of course, in two years all this research will probably be debunked, but hey, two years of healthy living is fine by me. And what good fortune for this article to cross my desk on a Friday. It's fate. Guinness for dinner it is!

Medication

I haven't been shy about my apprehension towards medication. But I must say that recent online discussions and articles have started to sway my opinion. Apparently, many people have achieved tangible results through this method of treatment. So, I thought I'd post this article, in case anyone is interested.

I'm Never Drinking Again

This is not a bad attempt at a New Years resolution, but an effort to save my own life. I woke up on Sunday with an intense aching in the mid-lower region of the left side of my back. Not aching in the sense that I had a tight muscle, because I just can't get away from the gym, but ache in the sense that an organ was on the verge of bursting.

At first I thought, " Okay, maybe I slept weird, or last night's alcohol is getting to me," and figured it would just go away in a couple hours. Ha! It's still here. Two days later. And although I'm not even sure where the liver is located, I'm certain that this "ache," (which has actually turned into more of a piercing), is a premature sign of Cirrhosis.

So, off I went to WebMD, to find out exactly what this disease is all about. To my surprise, Cirrhosis is the seventh leading cause of death by disease, and women who are "heavy" drinkers are at a higher risk.

Okay, I'm definitely a woman and definitely a drinker. But now I'm wondering what exactly they mean by "heavy." They go onto elaborate...alcohol abuse is considered more than two drinks a day. A drink being a 5 ounce glass of wine, a 12 ounce can of beer, or 1 1/2 ounces of hard liquor.

Two drinks a day? One, two? On an average day, I don't even have my socks off by the time I've got the second one down. I'm screwed. And scared. I figure I need about twenty years of abstinence from alcohol to make up for the last five.

The Year in Diseases

Not to be all mushy about the new year, but as 2006 comes to an end, I couldn't help but look back on the blog and draw some conclusions about how the hypochondria is progressing. I was shocked. The amount of diseases I've been inflicted with over the year is tiring. And while I've only been blogging for five months, the majority of my ailments have ran their course during that time.

So, being the lovely list maker that I am, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to lay them out here...

• Breast Cancer
• Bird Flu
• High Blood Pressure
• Tonsillitis
• Encephalitis
• Appendicitis
• Throat Cancer
• Skin Cancer
• MS
• Throat Collapse
• Lung Collapse
• Lymph Node Malfunction
• Tissue Degeneration of the Neck and Face
• Acid Reflux
• Sadistic and Sophisticated Sinus Infection
• Pinched Nerve in the Elbow
• Blood Clots
• Eye Twitch (caused by Nerve Pathway damage)
• Organ Combustion

The inumerous heart attacks, strokes, brain tumors and aneurysms must not be forgotten, and undoubtedly deserve to stand alone from the list - as it is they who have given me some of my best deaths.

And while I've been weak in succumbing to the imaginary illnesses, I feel I've progressed in two important ways.

The first, toning down the judgmental behavior. Instead of becoming infuriated by the actions of others, I look within myself and try to understand why their behavior upsets me. What I've found, more often than not, is the qualities that bother me most about others, are the same qualities that I dislike about myself.

The second, is the realization that I have control of myself and my emotions. Nothing else. That external factors don't control me. I control me. This is a tough one that goes back to the whole negative thinking routine, but I'm proud to report that things are progressing in this area.

These things may not seem hypochondria-related, but in the end, I think it will be baby steps like these that will lead to a hypochondria-free me.

Happy New Year and cheers to a healthy 2007. Let the binge drinking begin!

Put Your Happy Face on

Let the celebrations begin. Despite my last attempt to thwart our trip this morning, we’re off to see the “fam.”

And not only do I have to worry about the endless hours of visiting, I also get to stress about crashing off the side of the icy mountain and dying on the way there. I’m not sure which scenario is worse.

We're already behind schedule. So, flask in hand, and off I go. Merry fucking Christmas.

138/88

I'm having severe chest pains. And head pains. I can't breathe. My heart is beating eratically and I'm twitching. My temperature is 97.1.

She's...Dead...Jim

Now that I can open my eyes enough to see the computer screen, I suppose I should chronicle the horror of this December afternoon.

I had a 4:15 p.m. doctor’s appointment, for my annual “woman wellness checkup.” And I should’ve known how the visit would go, when I entered a waiting room full of people wearing face masks. But, I didn’t see it coming.

Seven shots, two cigarettes, and three hours of crying later, all I have to say is this is not what I needed four days before Christmas.

To make a long story short, my blood pressure is 138/88. The doctor took it twice just to be sure. Forget the countdown, my annual Christmas breakdown has officially begun.

Four outta Five ain't Bad

If I was playing baseball, that is. Unfortunately, I’m referring to the anxiety disorders I qualify for in this article.

Anxiety disorders are a category of illnesses marked by persistent, irrational and excessive worry that interferes with everyday functioning. They include generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), panic disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), social anxiety disorder (SAD) and specific phobias.

GAD, check. OCD, check. Panic Disorder, check. SAD, check. It’s hard to wrap my head around how I’ve gotten to this point. But, I’m starting to realize that most of these disorders are rooted in my discomfort and dislike of myself.

I'm ashamed of my family, my background and the lifestyle choices I've made, and continue to make. I feel like I subconsciously use anxiety as a diversion from my underlying discomfort and distaste for myself. By obsessively focusing my attention on strokes and cancer, or upcoming events, I can blame my anxiety on external factors—rather than acknowledging that the true source comes from within.

It's Been Confirmed

I’m a horrible person. I’ve known it all along. But, Rey confirmed it for me, tonight. After our…crash.

It was about 5:02 p.m., when we—thanks to TiVo—paused the Cowboy/Falcon game and left the house for the black raspberry liqueur we needed for our French Martinis. (Which, I would not recommend).

And it was snowing. Slightly. As we pulled out of the garage and I customarily bitched at Rey for how slow he, and everyone else, was driving. But, we made it. Eventually. To Billy Bob’s Fine Wine and Liqueur, and hence, proceeded to spend, way more than we had, on liqueur, the week before Christmas.

And, not two minutes after our checker disingenuously told us to, “drive safely in that weather,” Rey was spiraling out of control directly at the blue, ‘80’s Ford in our left hand lane.

Time slowed as we fish-tailed toward the truck. It was silent as I warily turned toward Rey. And found him, flashing the most accusatory look I’ve ever seen in my life.

(Mind you, we’re 180 degrees into our turn, and all he can think about is pointing fingers.)

Then, just as I’m bracing for the hit, we suddenly catapult away from the truck. Slam into the guardrail. Twice. Finish our 360 and spiral into a parking lot.

The short of it is, we were lucky enough not to hit another car. And, we drive an SUV, so we got a way without a scratch.

But that wasn’t enough for good old Rey. He passionately told me how horrible of a person I was, for laughing about the crash. (Okay, I was hysterically laughing for about twenty minutes).

* * *

Californians and snowboarding—good.
Californians and driving in snow—not so much.

If Only

As I’ve said before, I NEED A MAMMOGRAM! However, waiting for the results are a big source of anxiety for most women. Go figure. According to studies, women that need a second mammogram to check out abnormalities, suffer anxiety at an even higher rate. You don’t say. If a doctor ever, e-e-e-e-ever utters the words "abnormality" and "test" in the same breath to me, I’m going straight home to draft my last will and testament and suck down as many martinis as I possibly can.

Good-Bye Prozac, Hello Electricity

Anyone who has read this blog for awhile is aware of my apprehension towards anti-depressants such as Prozac, well, it appears there is now another option. Microcurrent electrical stimulation, aka shock therapy. That’s right, apparently a daily dose of electricity cures depression, anxiety and even pain. Here is the gist of the article:

“More than 100 studies show it helps depression, anxiety, sleep disorders and even pain. Electrical currents travel through electrodes and activate nerve cells in the brainstem, producing feel-good chemicals like serotonin and acetylcholine.”

Wait, it gets better, you can purchase your very own “at-home” system for under $1000.

Duped Again

What can I say. The plane didn’t crash. The party was a great time. And the three weeks of anxiety I put myself through were all in vain.

It’s easy to look back now and see how ridiculous I acted leading up to the party. What’s not so easy is keeping that in mind when the next social situation arises.

Anxiety is a sick, sick game...

I am a Party Person...I am a Party Person...I am a Party Person...

Damn, it's not working!

There is a Difference

I’m very diligent about monitoring the common areas of my office and the whereabouts of my coworkers, so I’m not faced with any unforeseen encounters. Trips to the kitchen and bathroom are very calculated, and today, when I was sure the coast was clear, I headed for the kitchen to make my lunch.

Much to my dismay, (and thanks to my apparently poor calculations), I was followed in by a senior attorney. So, I did my best at being cordial and initiated a conversation about the only thing that’s been on my mind for the last two weeks. “So, you’re not going to the Christmas party?” I ask. I was shocked by her response.

“No. I’m not a party person. I don’t like parties. I’m no good at parties, so I don’t go.”

Okay, first of all I was shocked because I would never be able to say that—even though I feel that way—because to me, not being a “party person” is a bad thing. It would make people look down on me, which in turn makes me a horrible person.

But the other reason why it surprised me is because she’s this extraordinarily smart, witty and opinionated woman and I can’t fathom her passing up an opportunity to socialize. She’s overtly social in the office, she’s very chatty and funny and it seemed out of character.

The bottom line is I don’t want to go to the Christmas party because I’m uncomfortable with myself and terrified of looking stupid in front of others; she doesn’t want to go to the party because...she doesn’t want to go to the party. Big difference.

And there’s nothing wrong with being the type of person who doesn’t get thrilled at the idea of a Christmas party. What is wrong is when you feel like killing yourself to get out of it.

It’s all about self-acceptance. If only I could accept myself.

The Calm Before the Storm

The Christmas party has all but consumed me these last couple days. Last night I was in tears. Today I’m okay.

My social anxiety is so intense. It’s almost unbearable. It’s hard for me to believe I live in this state of constant panic. The fear is always there. It’s so real. So paralyzing.

I think about it, about how pathetic I am, and how stupid it sounds to be terrified of a Christmas party. Free drinks, music, good food, nice views. I should be thankful that this is the worst of my problems.

I just have such strong feelings of inadequacy. I don’t know if it’s because I was brought up in a negative household, or because I was abandoned by my Dad, or because of the warped portrayal of normal by the mass media, but I always feel like I’m not good enough. I feel like I have to be the most outgoing, the funniest, the most knowledgeable, the prettiest, the best dancer. And I’m not.

I feel like I always have to put on a façade for people to accept me, and I do it so often it’s like second nature. I know it makes me feel even worse in the long run because it reinforces the idea that the real me really isn’t good enough.

It’s just like the title of this post, I was gonna log on and write about how calm I am about the party, but that’s bullshit. I’m screaming inside.

My flight leaves at 1:55 p.m. on Friday.

The Hypochondriac’s Worst Nightmare

I’m not trying to send anybody into a fit of hypochondria, but I couldn’t keep this one to myself—Discovery Health actually has animated, step by step demonstrations of how the most horrifying diseases attack the body.

I thought I was being safe when I opted for Anthrax in lieu of the stroke or heart attack route, but that didn’t turn out to be the case. This is a taste of what I got…

“Within a few days after initial exposure, cold-like symptoms including fever, cough, aches, and general malaise develop. Although some people experience a brief recovery, this is followed by a rapid onset of more serious symptoms. During this time, sores develop in the lung tissue where the bacteria first entered the body and fluids build up within the chest cavity. This produces bleeding and swelling and restricts breathing.

The toxins also reach the brain and spinal cord causing bleeding within the thin layer of tissue that encases these structures. The results are severe respiratory problems, hemorrhaging, shock, and often death.”

There was also something in there about the lymph nodes swelling and hemorrhaging. Needless to say, I’m dreading the next time I develop “cold-like” symptoms.

I’m warning you now, this is not a safe place for hypochondriacs. ENTER…

Something New to Fear!

As if anxiety wasn't bad enough. (And, no this is not my truck.) According to this article, panic attacks can cause you to drive your vehicle into a wall.

Next Stop...

Rollercoaster. Teeter-totter. Peaks and valleys. Call it what you will. They all describe my emotional state equally well.

Today is a "valley."

I regretfully inform you that I have a highly developed form of throat cancer strangling me at this very moment. Not to mention, my skin cancer is rapidly growing and causing me to itch incessantly. I've arranged a doctor’s appointment for next Thursday, assuming that I make it that long.

If I suddenly disappear from the blogosphere, please leave your condolences in the comment section.

A Toast to Unhealthy Living

Good news! Turns out cardiovascular disease isn't caused by the previous suspects such as lack of physical activity, high blood pressure, or those enjoyable lifestyle choices known as smoking and drinking.

Then what is it caused by, you ask? Put nicely by the Guardian, "lower than average mental agility," that's right, stupidity. So if you're not smarter than the average bear, cardiovascular disease is what you have to look forward to.

Cheers!

For Emergency Use

It has just come to my attention, through randomly imagining myself choking to death, that neither I, or more importantly Rey, know how to perform the Heimlich Maneuver. Sure, it seems simple enough, I've watched it done in a million movies; but in the event that it's my life on the line, I'd like to make sure I'm getting the actual Heimlich Maneuver and not the movie version.

Hence, the link to The Heimlich Institute for proper instructions and easy access during an unexpected choking fiasco.

*Please note that the Heimlich Maneuver is a registered trademark of The Heimlich Institute, which you must contact for permission of use, prior to performing said technique.

Wine & Cheese

Two of life's simple pleasures;
four glasses of wine and grating cheese, not so much.

"Leila..." "Yes, I am Here"

I imagine saying this out loud would make me feel crazier than typing it does, but allegedly it's the new cure for anxiety.

According to Zen Master Bokuju Osho, this technique of blurting out your name and then responding to yourself, is enough to snap you out of a fit of panic. Sounds bizarre to me, but who am I to question a Zen Master's mental health philosophy.

What Would I do Without Thee

My good friend, Death, has come to save me again; and what a coincidence, only twelve days before the dreaded Christmas party and twenty-eight days before the family functions begin.

This time, the manifestation is in the form of skin cancer. I’ve got it in two places; the tiny, brown spot on my left cheek and the mole on the right side of my neck, just above my collarbone.

I actually made a trip to the doctor a couple months ago, convinced I needed emergency surgery for this same reason, after watching a skin cancer feature on CNN. But, as usual, the doctor insisted I was healthy and cancer free, despite my best efforts. (Now, this was the same doctor who made a game out of finding my breast cancer lump, so for all I know she was replaying the last night’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy in her head as she half-assedly checked my moles.)

At any rate, the mole at the base of my neck has been itching like crazy, (per WebMD this is a sure sign of cancer), and I can’t get out of the mirror after self-diagnosing this little brown spot.

I keep imagining that a huge chunk of my left cheek will have to be butchered to save my life and I’ll be walking around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame for the rest of my days.

There's No Turning Back Now

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the most horrible time of the year has officially begun. It’s 10:00 a.m. on this lovely Thanksgiving day. I’m home, with a beer in hand and a turkey in the oven, (yes, that’s homemade stuffing you see there), and things are seemingly great—aside, of course, from the Turkey bacteria that I got in my ear, which is slowly manifesting into a killer infection, and the burn I received after grabbing the pan in the oven, but that’s besides the point.

I slept in. There’ll be no visiting with family. No parades. Just football, drinking and cooking the day away. But, there’s one minor detail that I’ve failed to mention. In order to keep The Beast from making a surprise visit, I led her to believe that I would be spending Thanksgiving with her. This was Rey’s master plan—thank you Rey—after her last surprise visit. The only problem is I have to break the news.

But I’ve decided that I’m not gonna break the news. My master plan is to unplug the phone and not talk to her until Christmas. So how’s that for a happy Thanksgiving?

Did I mention I HATE THE HOLIDAYS?

Update: I caved. Well sort of, I sent her an e-mail with a lame excuse. To which she replied "Happy Thanksgiving," aka "You're a whore bitch and you ruined mine and your brother's Thanksgiving." (6:04 p.m.)

Prophesies of a Hypochondriac

I have a sick obsession of devising cynical outcomes to future events and incessantly replaying them over and over and over in my mind. Instead of “going with the flow,” or living in the “moment,” I spend the “moment” engrossed in my horrible outcomes. It’s a ritual that all but consumes me, and a big source of my anxiety.

For instance, my company Christmas party is in nineteen days. They fly me and a guest to Vegas, put us up in a four star hotel, and host the party at a luxurious country club. Believe it or not, I absolutely dread every moment that brings me closer to the party.

I focus on how the plane will crash, I can feel my flesh burning; how my outfit will look horrible, and the disgusted stares people will give me; the humiliation I’ll feel when no one talks to me. (Mind you, this will be my third Christmas party, my plane has yet to crash and I’ve had a great time every year). But still, I vividly play out the worse case scenarios up until the very last day.

The bottom line is, I feel like I’m setting myself up for failure and am making a conscious effort to visualize the positive instead of the negative.

My Brain: Starring in "The Drink Dilemma"

There’s this wretched, little moment in every day called happy hour. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. If you’re lucky, perhaps not. Nevertheless, where I’m from, this so called “happy hour”—when coworkers get together for light hearted banter and drinks at a presumably discounted price—takes place three times a week. I can’t attest to what goes on at these gatherings because I’ve never been, but what I do know is the planning for these get-togethers begins at around 3:00 p.m. and sends me into a psychobabble which resembles something close to the following:

Shhhh. Did someone say happy hour?
Oh shit, they did.
Oh god, I hope they don’t invite me.
Please don’t let them invite me.
If they invite me, I’ll have to come up with an excuse.
If I come up with an excuse, they’ll know I’m lying.
If they know I’m lying, they’ll think I don’t like them.
If they think I don’t like them, they won’t like me.
If they don’t like me, no one will ever like me.
If no one likes me, I’ll never get a husband.
If I don’t get a husband, I won’t have kids.
If I don’t have kids, I’ll be a lonely old maid.
If I’m a lonely old maid, I’ll become a drug addict.
If I become a drug addict, I’ll die a lonely death and no one will care!!!

(It’s about here that I realize there is another option: going to drinks…)

But if I go out to drinks, I’ll have to carry on a conversation.
If I have to carry on a conversation, I’ll get nervous.
If I get nervous, I might say something stupid.
If I say something stupid, I’ll turn red.
If I turn red, they’ll think I’m an idiot.
If they think I’m an idiot, I won’t be able to face them.
If I can’t face them, I’ll have to quit my job.
If I quit my job, I won’t be able to pay my bills.
If I can’t pay my bills I’ll have to live on the street.
If I live on the street, I’ll become a drug addict.
If I become a drug addict, I’ll die a lonely death and no one will care!!!

(Then I realize there’s also option three: not getting invited at all…)

If I don’t get invited, that means they hate me.
If they hate me…

Well, you get the picture.

I'm Moving

That's right, I'm off to Germany, apparently it's a hypochondriac haven. According to this article, the average German visits his doctor 16.3 times a year. Wow.

I Lived...Again

It was about 11:00 a.m. I was in the kitchen, pouring my 5^th cup of coffee, when a razor-sharp pain shot through my left lung near the bottom of my ribcage and caused time to come to a screeching halt. I dropped the coffee on the counter and did my best to nonchalantly limp out of the kitchen towards my desk.

Wincing with every step, I finally reached the phone. I used my last gasps to notify an amused Rey of the situation, telling him how to distribute my dismal belongings. I then fell into my chair and proceeded to drown in the blood that felt like concrete slowly and painfully solidifying my lung.

I don’t know how I come up with these things, but I believe them whole-heartedly. The slightest “twinge” instantaneously sends me from calm to hysterical.

Organ collapse is one of my favorite deaths. A couple months ago, I had a major—by “major” I mean two-hour—breakdown when my throat “collapsed.”

And while I’ve never heard or read of anyone’s organs spontaneously collapsing, that doesn’t mean I won’t be the first.

Damn You Ben Roethlisberger

I knew I was doomed when those schmuck NFL announcers insisted on giving report after detailed report of Roethlisberger’s appendicitis. I muted the TV, left the room, didn’t watch the Steelers games, but it was all to no avail...

There I was today, almost exactly two months later, (at work), minding my own business, when it came to my attention, (through agonizing pain), that I’d developed a severe case of good old appendicitis and my intestines were on the verge of bursting.

I didn't even know what appendicitis was until Roethlisberger came along; so, it's him I thank for the hysteria, and excruciating pain I experienced above my belly button today.

I Hate the Holidays

Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of things I love about the season; rum and coke, turkey, pumpkin pie, presents that involve diamonds and sapphires etc. It’s just that all of those things don’t quite make up for the anxiety that the holidays bring.

Visiting with family is problem number one. Not so much my own family, since I barely have one…My grandparents, (who were the backbone of the family), died 5 years ago and the rest of the family dissipated in a fight over the money they left behind. But, even before that, the “fam” consisted of an uncle, aunt and three cousins.

But, Rey has a big family, that we visit every year; his mom has five sisters and his dad four brothers, so it’s quite the ordeal. They’re nice people, not overly intrusive, or prodding, but they ask all the questions I work at avoiding all year.

"How's your mom?"
Horrible

"How's your sick brother?"
Even worse

"How's school?"
What's that

I know they're just trying to be nice, but I can't cope. I freak out. I freeze. I can't speak. I just smile and nod when they ask questions.

I enjoy decorating, cooking, drinking and being merry, I do, but the holidays are just so stressful for me.

I'm seriously considering getting a prescription of Prozac to get me through this year, although that would require telling my doctor that I have some sort of anxiety problem, which brings up more fear than the holiday season.

Hypo-what, Never Heard of it

You wouldn’t know it by reading my blog, but I’m actually a closet hypochondriac. I like to think my doctor doesn’t even know, but that could be wishful thinking. My co-workers definitely don’t know, and I almost felt I was betraying my own kind yesterday, when an attorney that I work with, was explaining how ridiculous her boyfriend was for thinking he was dying from a staph infection.

* * *

Here's the situation: Her boyfriend had been complaining of tooth pain for the last six months. The dentist ignored him. Turns out he had a sadistic infection that killed not only his two front teeth, but a portion of his jaw bone. He now has to have his front teeth pulled, a root canal, a bridge and a jaw bone implant.

* * *

Yeah, and she’s laughing, carrying on about how he’s overreacting for thinking that the infection is spreading to his brain. I can’t even speak at this point. My whole face is numb from the infection I’d developed over the last 40 seconds. But, instead of standing up for the guy, what do I do? I laugh and act as if he’s crazy too.

I know, I’m a horrible person.

I Lied

Okay. Well, here I am home sick. Just like I said never happens. And I’m actually handling it rather well. I’m not even worried about what’s going on at the office, or how this day off will affect my review next month. Because I’ve got better things to concern myself with. Like…the man in the crawl space who’s waiting for the perfect moment to jump out and brutally murder me.

It sounds insane, but it’s a perfect example of my disconnect with reality and the past. I seriously spend about 1/3 of the time that I’m home alone worrying about Dennis Rader in my closet. I try to tell myself that I’ve lived in this house for over two years and have stayed home alone countless times without anyone trying to murder me. But, I can’t convince myself that today won’t be the day it actually happens.

Deep down I know this a good neighborhood. That the woman next door is a stay at home mom and can probably hear my TV right now. Not to mention, the lady across the street is your average Mrs. Kravitz, waiting for some action so she can call the cops. But, the schizophrenic in me always wins.

Excuse me while I go check the house for intruders.